


sail through this to that

by PJVilar



Series: Love You Back [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Reading, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PJVilar/pseuds/PJVilar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is diagnosed with cancer. Derek supports him, unexpectedly.</p><p>Titles for the series taken from Lucille Clifton's poem "blessing the boats at St. Mary's"</p>
            </blockquote>





	sail through this to that

“Did you know? Tell me!”

Derek stays where he is, against the wall. As usual he has no idea what the fuck Scott is freaked about, but this time is different. For one thing, he’s been crying. For another, he's holding back the change. Derek would be impressed if he weren't pissed off he just got pushed across the room.

Isaac stands in the doorway, every inch of his body at attention but with the eyes of a scared child. He feels the ears of his pack pricking up outside in the yard, not on alert, exactly. Confused.

“Is this the hunters? Allison?”

“No!” Scott says. He starts to round on Derek again but halts, stuffs his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “You really didn’t know? I thought you’d. . and then I couldn’t. . . “ He looks miserably at the floor.

Derek pushes off the wall, hearing his leather jacket stick in places before peeling away. Isaac watches warily, but the scent of danger is dissipating.

What it’s replaced with is like claws across his throat. The scent of grief.

Derek doesn’t even realize he’s speaking, a whisper.

“What happened to Stiles, Scott,” he says and Scott can only shake his head violently, not meeting his eyes.

***

“Oh, man, I’m sorry,” Stiles says. Derek represses the urge to tell him to sit down, to sit still. It’s never worked before and from what little Scott managed to tell him, Stiles feels fine. A little tired, a little off, but fine. It’s the treatment that will hurt.

Instead, Derek sits at the kitchen table and feels like a chump while Stiles reels around and does the things you do for company. Puts ice in glasses, folds napkins, upgrades the hidden chips from a bag to a bowl.

“I told him,” Stiles says around a mouthful of something purporting to be barbeque flavor that smells absolutely nasty. “He plunks the bowl down and sits across from Derek, immediately tipping his chair back and forth. “You know, those studies, have you seen them? Cancer sniffing dogs.” He graces Derek with one of those brilliant smiles that is both a gentle dig and an actual dig. It just depends on the day. “But those dogs are specially trained,” he says, wagging a finger covered with red powder in Derek’s direction, “and we all know you’re not trainable.”

Derek sniffs at the chips and takes a long sip of water instead. It feels good, soothing. “We can, sometimes, smell disease. You know that. Infection.”

Stiles stares at him for a moment and bolts back out of the chair, crossing to the pantry. He disappears nearly entirely into it -- not surprising given how often he buys his own snacks and then hides them from the Sheriff. It’s the stuff of legend.

“Right.” he says, muffled into the canned food. “Well, I guess I’m relieved you couldn’t smell what’s going on with my testicles. Keep the crotch sniffing to the pack.” Stiles steps back out with an open bag of Fig Newtons and pops a whole one in his mouth. “Speaking of, did you tell them?”

They know somethings up, but Derek managed to put them off and to convince Scott to keep his mouth shut. Except for Allison, because there are no miracles. Even though Derek hates that whole thing, he’s not going to begrudge Scott comfort from his lover.

“No,” he responds, watching Stiles chew. He looks completely well, the same, really. Except. “That’s up to you.”

“Thanks.” Stiles tosses the cookie bag behind him on to the counter and sits back down. He rubs his legs briskly several times. He’s like a watch winding down, everything still ticking but the gears shift more subtly. Maybe it’s all hitting him.

Derek sighs. He has a million questions but he’s not going to make Stiles answer any of them now. Just one.

“Are you scared?”

Stiles seems to consider this, like it was something he hadn't had a chance to think about yet.

“One thing I have seriously done in the last couple of years is come to terms with the fact that we’re all gonna die.” Derek smirks at that and then it dies on his lips when Stiles finishes the thought.

“I’d really rather not do it in slow motion.”

***

Derek gets his answers, some of them anyway, when Stiles tells the pack a couple of nights later. He reads bullet points off a legal pad, probably to keep himself on point, although it’s not lost on anyone that the couple of times someone interrupts with a question, Stiles just jams his finger beneath the words and keeps reading until the end.

*Testicular cancer  
*Stage 2  
*Lymph nodes are assumed to be clean but they’ll test during surgery  
*Surgery is next week  
*Aggressive chemo indicated due to the presence of BRCA, a genetic mutation he probably inherited from his mom.  
*Six weeks every day, then radiation, then follow-up. Nine months of treatment, at least.  
*No word yet on whether or not he’ll be “de-balled”. That in response to Jackson’s question.  
*Also in response to Jackson’s question: a thump on the shoulder from Lydia and a near-face removal from Scott

Derek glowers at everything in the world and suggests an intermission.

Scott goes to follow him, but Derek. . . wants to be the one to do it, honestly. Part of it is Allison is tearful, and Derek can deal with pissed-off Stiles was before he can deal with that. Part of it is seeming instinct. Stiles walks out, the door banging on the frame, and Derek doesn’t think to follow. He just yearns for it.

“Stiles,” he says, a warning, as Stiles yanks his hoodie on and stomps out into the darkness. The trees that ring the property are distinct to Derek in the light from the house. To Stiles, they might be indistinguishable from the night sky.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going walking in the woods,” he says evenly, knowing Derek can hear him. “I’m getting in my fucking Jeep and I’m driving the fuck home.”

“Jackson is an ass,” Derek says and he stops in his tracks, confident Stiles will come back. His wolf can feel Stiles pulling toward his voice before he even turns around.

“It’s not. . . yes, he is, no shit.” Stiles spins around. The hoodie is successfully on and he’s still clutching the yellow notepad in one hand. Derek wants to go to him, throw the pad on the ground, only he doesn’t know where that’s coming from, so he holds his ground.

“That’s not exactly ground-breaking news, dude,” Stiles says. “I don’t care what he said. Look, I’d rather be able to joke about this than have everybody be sobbing and freaking and fuck, I’m not dying.” Stiles takes his first breath. He’s often hyperactive, but not desperate like this. Derek walks toward him with deliberate, slow steps. “Not yet, anyway. It’s, just, coming from him.”

“Because of Lydia?” Derek asks. Stiles is close enough to touch and the question makes Derek queasy.

“Stupid, right? I don’t even feel that way about her anymore. I haven’t. Dammit.” Stiles takes a deep breath and laces his fingers together, then hangs his hands around the back of his neck. He looks at Derek as steadily as he ever has. The notepad is somewhere in the dirt. “ After next week, I’ll have a pretty nasty scar on my _nads_. And maybe I’ll be down a ball if they decide that’s the best way to go. And then chemo is an evil bitch. I’ve seen it. This should be the least of my worries, but I never.” He flails his hands at Derek, who doesn’t fill in the obvious blank in the sentence. It doesn’t feel like he has the right, but Stiles just gets frustrated. “Forget it.” He feels in the pocket of his jeans for his keys and pulls them out. “Sorry to ditch like this, I can’t.”

“Leave your window open,” Derek blurts out. Someone is in the doorway of the house, he can smell it. Boyd, watchful, as he should be.

“What?”

"I can be there around midnight,” Derek says, aiming for a quiet that can’t be heard by curious pups.

Stiles walks straight to the door of his car, anger radiating from him, the grip of his fists. “I wasn’t asking for a pity fuck.”

“I wasn’t offering one, Stiles.”

He hesitates there, head down, jangling the keys to some song in his head. Probably a real one, by Ke$ha or Pitbull or someone else with one name, the kind of song that makes Derek want to rip off his own ears and then go back in for the drums and canals. But he waits, and tolerates, because Stiles is determining an answer.

“Okay, fine,” he says.

After he drives off, Derek goes back to the house to talk to the pack, soil-streaked notepad in one hand.

***

Scott and Stiles have both explained this to Derek before. Admittedly, he wasn’t really listening. It’s called hyperfocus, and it’s essentially Stiles’ wolf. Or the wolf of his ADHD. Along with everything else, Stiles can focus completely on something. Derek’s seen it of course, when he’s looking up spells and killer lizards, or when he’s telling this week’s monster what he can go suck on.

This is different. Stiles is completely focused on himself and Derek. Their two bodies, and how they feel. It’s so tactile and sensual, it’s almost hard to believe Stiles has never been given the bite.

When Derek gets there, Stiles is on his bed in the same t-shirt as before, and the unzipped hoodie. The jeans have been swapped out for sweatpants.

“You’re dressed,” Derek says, curious, and steps down from the sill.

“Such a sweet talker,” Stiles replies dryly. his fingers fly over the keyboard of his laptop for another few moments and then he shuts the lid and dips down to the far side of the bed to leave it on the floor.

“I’m making one request,” Derek says. He takes off his jacket and drapes it over the back of Stiles’ desk chair. Sheriff Stilinski must be out, there’s no discernable sign of him and his car wasn’t in the driveway. Stiles licks his lips. It looks a little nervous.

“Yeah?” he says. He moves back, folds into a cross-legged position, when Derek comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I want you to put a child-safety on WebMD at least until your surgery is over,” Derek says. After a beat, Stiles cracks up.

“No can do, mi amigo,” he says through the last heaves of laughter. “Mi amigo Miguel,” he adds and lets his gaze drop to Derek’s chest, then back up again. “But I do promise to at least attempt to listen to my doctors and not randomly assume I have lupus or that rare disease you get from inhaling the dust of Peruvian ceramics.”

Derek inhales deeply, the scent of before. Before he’ll touch Stiles. Before Stiles changes. Before they all have to adjust in the wake of Stiles needing months of treatment. Before the fear and the pain and survival start in earnest. The edge of the cliff.

“Is that really a thing?” he asks. Stiles didn’t ask for a pity fuck. But he asked to be seen, just once. And now, in a quiet, cluttered bedroom that is rich with his smells, Derek looks at him. It’s what he wants, too.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He takes off his sweatshirt, then his t-shirt. He smiles softly and raises his eyebrows for Derek to do the same. “It really is a thing.”


End file.
